


Satisfactory Compromises

by TroubleIWant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, M/M, POV Stiles, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Terrible Coping Mechanisms, canon divergent post S5, descriptions of depressive episodes, dubcon, hurt comfort, therapy and recovery, transitioning into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:56:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleIWant/pseuds/TroubleIWant
Summary: Stiles is basically doing fine. He's surviving, anyways. So what if it's a struggle to get out of bed most days? Back in high school, everything about the supernatural had seemed edgy and romantic and exhilarating, but after seeing everything he has, wanting to go back to ignorance is only natural. Only then Derek comes back to Beacon Hills and says he's in love with him, and everything changes.For the worse.-----------------Stiles catches himself at the last minute and blinks hard, as if that might change the fact that, yes, the person sliding onto the stool next to him is Derek Hale. He’s more than back in Beacon Hills, he’s right at Stiles’ elbow. And fuck if the unbidden reaction to that doesn't feel like a return to high school: the palpable uptick in his pulse, the anxious desire to be funnier, louder, and brighter balanced with the feeling that he’s already the best version of himself when he’s got this man’s attention on him.Derek is smiling, his kaleidoscope hazel eyes flitting intently over Stiles’ face in a searching examination of his features. Stiles can feel his mouth pulling into a wide grin. It’s Derek. Derek’s back.“Hey, hi,” he says. “Hey there.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags, note ALL the tags! If any of the topics up there are triggering for you, prioritize your wellbeing and take a pass one this one. If you're on the fence, I've put all the spoilery details in the first comment on this chapter, and of course everyone is also free to ping me on [tumblr](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/) for specific things they're curious about! 
> 
> That said, thanks very much to [Matildajones](http://matildajones.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this rather intense story; as always you've made it so much better through your thoughtful input!

There’s a new monster in Beacon Hills, and it’s killing people. After so many years, Stiles just wishes he could be surprised. 

The cops had found the third body that morning, a young woman left emaciated overnight in a way that only the Beacon Hills PD could confuse for natural causes. Same as the other times, the pack’s struck out when it comes to finding a lead: no scent for Scott to pick up at the crime scene, no personal history between the victim and the supernatural for Stiles to dig into, and no clues from the scanned autopsy his dad had sent him, either. It’s as if they’re back in highschool, edging up against fatal danger and always a step behind. 

At least Stiles can drink about it, now, and the last dive bar to survive the downtown gentrification is the perfect place to do it. Mercy’s has a great mind-your-own-business vibe, and an even better price point. Enough whiskey in your system, and it’s easy to forgive the smell of stale liquor, the jostling closeness of the other sweaty patrons, and the way your elbows stick in layers of old varnish and dried beer when you put them on the bar, like Stiles is now. 

His glass hangs loosely in his fingers, and he squints one eye closed at the light winking off the amber whiskey. Another double would be nice, but that would make four tonight. After a year and a half of legal drinking, he knows his limits.

His phone buzzes and he checks it automatically. The text is from Scott, of course.  _ Hey anything useful in the autopsy? _

_ Nothing sorry, _ Stiles types, finger hovering over ‘send’ for a moment before he switches keyboards and hits the droopy side frown. He shoots the note off with a cheerful swooping noise and instantly winces with regret. He’d wanted to clarify that he wasn’t being snide, that he was genuinely sorry for striking out, but an emoji is overly flip for what they’re facing.

Stiles tips half his remaining drink into his mouth. Scott doesn’t text back. The silence doesn’t necessarily mean his best friend is irritated with him, though. Probably just that another lead came up, and he's busy. Stiles jiggles his leg as he stares at his silent phone, flipping absently through his other texts. He’s startled to find that after Scott, his next eight most recent contacts are fast food delivery confirmations and corporate coupons. Has it actually been that long since he touched base with the others?

He guesses distance and adulthood will do that to you. Lydia leaving permanently for a job at MIT that summer, plus Malia and Kira deciding to stay down in LA, had felt like the end of an era to him. Scott’s new Betas and their friends are still around, of course, but of the original pack it’s just him and Scott. Back when this whole werewolves thing was new and exciting, their ragtag group had somehow felt both inevitable and irreplaceable. And yet it didn’t even last a year before everyone started leaving, taking little bits of that innocence with them. Stiles misses that. Hell, Stiles even misses Jackson sometimes. 

He snorts at himself. He’s going to turn into a nostalgic has-been at 22 if he isn’t careful. Things hadn’t been better that first year, they’d just been naive. Even with this new monster, things are saner than they’d been with Peter on the loose, or with the Kanima under Gerard’s thumb. Jesus, it’s worlds better than the Nogitsune. Theo’s long gone, too, and Stiles has been graciously welcomed back into the pack despite what happened with Donovan. So what if it feels like a pack full of strangers? Back in high school, everything about the supernatural had seemed edgy and romantic and exhilarating, but of he’s grown out of that. After seeing everything he has, wanting to go back to ignorance is only natural.

Stiles lets his mind wander to a pair of brilliant hazel eyes set in a serious, sculpted face before bringing the glass to his lips and letting the rest of the liquor slide onto his tongue. If he’s honest, his nostalgia might have more to do with one specific departure than he’d like admit. Just, Derek leaving wasn’t something he’d anticipated and prepared for. Lydia and Danny were always going to end up on the East Coast at one fancy school or another, while Jackson and Isaac hadn’t even liked the rest of them that much. But the Hales belonged to this land. Cora leaving he can understand, but shouldn’t Derek at least have stayed? It felt wrong for him be gone for good.

Stiles often thinks, in moments of weakness, that if Derek hadn’t left, things might have been different. Better. If Derek had stayed, he wouldn’t have trusted Theo any more than Stiles had. He’d have stood up to Scott, too, helped find actual evidence of Theo’s lies, something. They would have worked together to figure out the Dread Doctors situation, and together they would’ve had a shot, they would have… Except that, of course, Derek didn’t stay, and Stiles did the best he could alone, which included some things he can’t take back now, no matter how much he wants to. 

And that’s how it is, Stiles reminds himself. Derek’s been happily ensconced in Cabo for the last few years, settled down with Cora into an early retirement far away from all the death and destruction up here. The half-understood myths about pack territory that Stiles clings to are superstition, and the moving vans that emptied out the loft are reality. He should just accept it: Derek is never coming back to Beacon Hills.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says. 

Stiles jerks around to see the familiar body that owns the voice standing by the bar, a daydream summoned by his idle thoughts. He almost slips off of his own seat in shock.

Stiles catches himself at the last minute and blinks hard, as if that might change the fact that, yes, the person sliding onto the stool next to him is Derek Hale. He’s more than back in Beacon Hills, he’s right at Stiles’ elbow. And fuck if the unbidden reaction to that doesn't feel like a return to high school, too: that palpable uptick in his pulse, the anxious desire to be funnier, louder, and brighter balanced with the feeling that he’s already the best version of himself when he’s got this man’s attention on him.

Derek is smiling, his kaleidoscope hazel eyes flitting intently over Stiles’ face in a searching examination of his features. Stiles can feel his mouth pulling into a wide grin. It’s  _ Derek _ . Derek’s back.

“Hey, hi,” he says. “ _ Hey _ there.” He’s suddenly much more aware of how tipsy he is, how his tongue feels too thick in his mouth, tripping over his teeth. He licks his lips, watches Derek’s gaze flick down and, gratifyingly, linger. “You’re here,” he says, stupidly.

“I am,” Derek agrees wryly.

Stiles hums back, mocking. “Sure, okay, no big. Hell of a drive from Cabo, isn't it?” Even though Stiles’ appreciation for Mercy’s is partially the proximity to Derek's loft, it's not like he ever expected his old crush to just show up. He taps his fingers across the bar, trying to put his energy into action that isn’t touching Derek. They don’t have that kind of relationship, one where they can hug hello. Derek’s been intermittently in contact, but Stiles can’t say they’re close. The guy’s never even hinted that he planned on coming all the way up for a visit. Stiles feels like he should have been told if Derek was visiting. Unless...

“Oh, shit, is this about the…” he glances at the bartender, and elides “the string of murder victims” even though the man is hardly paying attention. “I can get Scott.”

He clumsily pulls his phone from his pocket, but Derek reaches out and presses it face down on the bar. Stiles swallows hard at the warm contact of Derek's palm on his knuckles. 

“I didn’t come to see Scott,” Derek says, a low rumbling admission that’s just barely audible over the noise of the bar, even with how close they suddenly are.

“Oh,” Stiles says. Derek’s hand is still on his. Stiles clears his throat. "What... what brings you back, then?" he asks, a little strangled to his own ears. The implication is, if not for Scott...The way you finish that sentence is,  _ I came back for _ **_you_ ** . 

Derek drags his hand away, leaving a trace of tingling warmth. "Don’t you know?" he says enigmatically. 

Stiles freezes, then shakes his head, half to say ‘no’ and half to clear it. He tries to remember their last text exchange. Had he hinted at how badly he wished for Derek to come back? Had the mere implication been enough to summon him from across the border? 

Derek just smiles and turns away, breaking their little tete-a-tete to flag the bartender. "What're you having?"

"Um," Stiles says. Shit, he's drunk. Derek has never given one hint that he thinks of Stiles as more than an occasionally amusing sidekick. The unrequited pining? That’s on Stiles’ end only, he knows that. But then again, why the hell not sit and have a drink with the hottest man he knows? Nothing else going on in this hellhole of a town. "Four Roses." 

Derek grimaces. “I have to get you something better than that.”

“What?” Stiles laughs. “Since when are you a connoisseur? You ‘wolves can't even, you know, get drunk,” he whispers in Derek’s ear, using the secret as an excuse to lean in too close, see if he can.

Derek’s eyebrows tip up for a second in confusion, and then his expression smooths. “Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the taste,” he says with a smile. The bartender comes over, and he orders two of something that apparently costs $20 a glass if the cash Derek puts down is an indication. Stiles just stares, speechless. 

"Cheers," Derek says when the bartender finishes pouring. His hand is large on the glass that he taps against Stiles' before taking a swallow. Stiles brings his own drink to his lips, and takes a small sip while he watches Derek over the rim: The movement of his throat, the way his tongue sweeps over his lower lip. The drink is much better than his usual, all right. It's oaky and rich on his pallet. Derek’s mouth, right now, must taste like the same thing. 

_ Get a grip, Stilinski, _ he thinks. He tries to take a deep, sobering breath, but instead of fresh air he catches a hint of Derek's familiar, woodsy cologne. When he exhales, he’s dizzier than before. 

Maybe it’s because they’ve never drank together like this, just the two of them, sitting close enough their thighs keep brushing together. It feels new and fragile, as if the night has all the heady possibility of a first date.  _ I didn’t come to see Scott, _ indeed. Even as a virginal teen, Stiles had imagined fucking Derek. How could you not? But his fantasies hadn’t had any of the pressing reality of this moment. 

He closes his eyes to push back that train of thought before Derek smells the horniness on him, but when he blinks them open Derek is looking at him with searching curiosity that you could mistake easily for desire. Except that it can’t be. It isn’t. Stiles needs to stop getting his hopes up.

“You know,” he says, fighting for that old irritation, for their usual prickly banter rather than this woozy and dangerous almost-flirtation _. “ _ The pack’s dealt with some fucked up shit these last couple years, no help from you. So why are you back  _ now _ ? And don’t give me that ‘don’t you know,’ bullshit. What makes today the day where you’re like, eh, okay, enough South America. Let’s see how those crazy kids made out.” Irritation achieved, rolled straight to genuine anger covering the hurt at being abandoned so easily. “Like, where the hell were you when we had the Dread Doctors breathing down our necks? Huh? When Scott started trusting a fucking chimera over me? When I...” But Derek doesn't know about Donovan yet.  _ Where were you when I needed you,  _ is what he means, and that’s no better than the misplaced hope he started off fighting down. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek says. Stiles gapes, the hard-won anger fizzling. Derek’s tone is open, honest, and the words roll off of his tongue as if he’s always been the type to apologize so easily. That whole Zen acceptance thing he’s had going on since their ill-fated trip to Mexico has apparently been working fucking miracles.

“That’s not an answer,” Stiles mumbles lamely.

A slow, brilliant smile blooms across Derek's face. “What if I said, I wanted to see if you missed me?”

Stiles is thrown back into a breathless, heart-pounding surety that the attention means something it doesn't. Does Derek know about his crush, is that what’s going on? Is he mocking him? “You can't just ask that,” he says. 

“Okay,” Derek says wryly, after a hint of a pause. He trails his finger around the rim of his glass. “Can I say that I missed you?” 

Stiles leans in, searching for the joke or the lie, but he doesn’t find it. Derek’s shoulders are hunched and tense, despite his flirty tone. The edge of vulnerability in his posture helps Stiles see it in the quirk of his eyebrow, too. In the quickness of his smile, the not-quite eye contact. He’s scared.

That’s what does it, in the end; Derek’s guarded nerves make Stiles feel paradoxically like whatever’s happening between them could actually be what he hopes it is. 

He laughs helplessly. “Missed  _ me _ ?”

“I did,” Derek presses.

“But you didn't,” Stiles says, finally letting himself crack open with raw honesty. “You don't. When have you ever thought of me as more than a loud, annoying kid?” He can feel his pulse in his throat, right to the side of the knot that’s forming there. He takes a long draw of his whiskey, looks down at the bar.

“I’ve wanted you since the first time I met you,” Derek scoffs. 

Stiles literally gasps, sputters on his drink and has to cough, lungs burning. “What?”

Derek quirks an eyebrow at him, not like it’s a cruel a joke, but like it’s obvious. His eyes glint like gemstones in the dim lighting of the bar. “You were young, I know, but you were… intoxicating. Trust me, I tried to ignore it, I didn't think-” he cuts himself off with a huffing laugh, looking away to the mirrored back of the bar for a second before turning to Stiles again. “But it’s been long enough. You’re not a kid now, and I wanted to at least see you.”

His fingers reach out, almost tentative, and circle Stiles’ wrist, his thumb brushing the fine hairs right at the joint.

“Why?” Stiles asks, eyes fixed on the electric point of contact. He’s so aware of the warm press of skin that he can barely process words, can’t let himself believe the obvious. 

Derek leans over so his lips brush Stiles’ ear. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, his breath a warm caress.

Stiles lets himself be tugged off his stool and led out of the bar, into the chilly night. They only make it half a block before Derek leads him around the corner of a tiny alley, crowds him up against the brick wall a few feet from the sidewalk, and in that semi-privacy he kisses him, hot and insistent. 

Their mouths do both taste of the same sharp tang of alcohol. Under that, though... Stiles moans, licking into Derek’s mouth, his hands coming up almost instinctively to wind into Derek’s hair and pull him down. It’s everything he could have imagined it would be: sparks and stars and toe-curling arousal. Derek lets himself be manhandled, looping his thumbs gently through the belt loops by Stiles’ hips.

“Wait,” Stiles gasps in between kisses. “This is… We can’t just…”

Derek pulls back, though not very far. “Of course, no, I’m sorry. We should definitely talk about this. Right?” He’s fighting back a smile. “That’s what you want?”

His thumbs are still at Stiles’ waist, nudging up under his shirt to press against his skin. Stiles gasps a little and arches into the touch while Derek nuzzles at his face, dragging his nose up Stiles’ cheek, ghosting his lips just to the side of Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles laughs, almost bewildered with how happy he feels right now. He brings their mouths together for a hungry kiss, pressing into the warmth of Derek’s chest. What the hell would he be waiting for? This is exactly what he’s wanted for years, but his best hope had been that Derek might eventually grow into an attraction to him after enough mutual life saving. He never in his wildest dreams thought that Derek might have wanted him since that first time the forest. 

Yet Derek had amazingly felt that spark of familiarity at first sight, too. Derek wanted him all along, wants him still. And Stiles… Stiles more than wants him back. He trusts him, God,  _ loves _ him if he’s honest about it. The last thing they need to do is talk when they could be kissing, touching, making up for lost time.

Derek rubs his cheek into Stiles’ neck, rough stubble prickling deliciously as he scents him. He nips at Stiles’ jaw and Stiles moans helplessly. It’s electric, better than anything Stiles has felt in recent memory, more intoxicating than the whiskey had been.

“Can we go to yours?” Derek asks. Stiles gasps as the firm warmth of Derek’s thigh presses up between his legs. It’s nearly impossible to think straight, but now that he does consider, they really shouldn’t go any farther on public property. But it's almost too much, going from Derek being back to Derek being in love with him to... sex? Stiles hasn’t been one to hook up so quickly before. 

Then again, it hasn’t been Derek asking.

“I live all the way across town, now,” he says. “Your old loft is right across the street. Are you staying somewhere else? Like, even if you are, it seriously can't be farther than my place.” 

“Eager,” Derek says, with an approving laugh.

“I still have the key on my ring,” Stiles admits, offering it up like a confession to a priest, a pact of truth between them. 

Derek beams. “See? You knew I'd come back for you. You knew I felt the same way.”

When he says it he sounds so certain that Stiles half believes it. He half believes he really did know all along that he was desired, trusted, worth coming back for. When Derek kisses him with the teasing promise of more, when he tucks him close against his side and they stride towards the loft like the two of them own the street - or the world - Stiles half believes that the arc of history is towards justice and and he must have done something pretty damn righteous to deserve this night.

Derek lets him unlock the door to the loft and then sweeps him literally off his feet across the threshold, kisses him until he’s dizzy. Stiles’ mind is an unintelligible mess of  _ yes _ and  _ want _ and  _ more _ . Derek strips out of his shirt and tugs Stiles’ off, too, broad palms cradling his ribcage as he says that Stiles is gorgeous, that he never should have waited so long. Stiles can do nothing but agree. Then Derek steps out of his jeans, and what conversation there was fumbles to a halt. 

_Whatever_ , Stiles figures, grinning into Derek's shoulder. This intimacy is already everything he wants, tonight. They can talk in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so does anyone else have an awful, creeping dread about Derek’s sudden reappearance, or is it just me?? Hmm.
> 
> Reminder: spoilery notes about the tagged warnings are in the first comment, for those who want them! You can ask me questions by replying to my comment, or via asks on my [tumblr](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/).
> 
> That said, thanks much for reading, leaving kudos (?) and commenting (???) because that is what gives me life. I hope that you'll stick around for the next parts! Chapter three will be up on Saturday, and I'll post the end on Sunday. It's a happy one, I promise!


	2. Chapter 2

Except in the morning, there’s no one to talk to. 

Stiles spends a good fifteen minutes waiting in the bed with confusion curdling to disbelief before he finally admits that Derek’s not upstairs in the bathroom, or even out for breakfast. He’s just... gone. 

Stiles’ mouth tastes like death, he has a piercing headache made worse by the light pouring through the loft’s uncovered windows and he’s vaguely nauseous to boot. His hangover is enough of an excuse to put off an exploration of the rest of the loft in itself, but on top of that his ass hurts like hell. He winces. What had seemed like a great idea last night is recognizably idiocy today. Spit is not lube, no matter how thoroughly you’ve been rimmed.

But there hadn't been any to use, much less condoms. There had only been the bed against the window, which had seemed like more than enough last night, so long as they were together. 

Now, it seems less so. He spots his own shirt by the door, his pants, his underwear a few steps from the bed. Derek’s clothes are gone. Still, the sloppy trail of his possessions is hardly out of place. The loft is a mess: a few extra boxes stacked in the corner, furniture that hadn’t been needed for the new place in Cabo sitting covered and askew where the movers had left it. The bed doesn’t even have a comforter or blanket, just the stale-smelling sheets. In fact, all of the loft he can see is much unchanged from when Derek left with Braeden, only dustier. There’s no luggage. It feels unlived in, like a flop house. Like the kind of place you take your slutty one night stand to, not the love of your life.

The nausea in Stiles’ stomach churns and twists its way up his throat until he has to swallow it back. With no more excuses, he gets up and dresses in last night’s dirty clothes to do a cursory check around. There might be a note, after all. Something.

There isn’t.

Calling Derek and asking “what the fuck” is not pathetic, he decides. It’s reasonable to wonder, after all the things they did and said last night, why Derek has inexplicably left him on his own. Again. So long as he doesn’t whine or get choked up or, God forbid, beg, it’s reasonable to call and get Derek’s side of things. Maybe there actually is a good explanation. Maybe there was some emergency that came up with the monster, or maybe Derek’s having a dumb but comprehensible crisis of confidence and he really does still want… Stiles grits his jaw, hard. After all their years of friendship, Stiles can give Derek the benefit of the doubt.

He has quite a few possible scenarios in mind when he makes the call. He feels like he has good reactions planned for all of them, ones that don’t involve pleading or crying. He’s going to be calm and collected; he’s not going to show his hand first, and he’s not going to fall into accusations. At least not right away. 

The phone goes to voicemail and Stiles dials back instantly, with a bit of his resolve to be cool cracking. If it’s going to be a one-and-done mistake, Derek can damn well give it to him directly over the phone. They owe each other that much, he thinks. 

On third ring, Derek picks up.

“Hey, Stiles?” he says, a little loud over the murmur of other voices, and Stiles is speechless. Of all the reactions he’d anticipated, blank surprise wasn’t even on the list.

“Yup, ‘s me,” he answers, sharply. Was their night together honestly so meaningless to Derek that he’s  _ surprised _ Stiles wanted to wake up together, or at least to a note saying ‘thanks for the fun orgasms’?

“Um, alright. Hold on, sorry.” There’s a quick exchange in Spanish, muffled as if Derek is holding the phone away from his mouth, and then a creaky whine of metal on metal after which the background noise dies down. “Okay, what’s going on?”

“Oh, you know, nothing much,” Stiles says, almost a snarl. “What’s up with you?”

“Okay,” Derek says slowly, like he’s confused. “Is it something supernatural? Dangerous? I’m at work right now, but I can…”

“At work?” Stiles echoes suspiciously.

“Yes, Stiles, I work,” Derek says dryly. It’s so like him, like their usual banter, that Stiles feels his chin wobble.

“Where are you?” he demands, pushing the self-pity away.

Derek sighs. “The bar, Tres Agaves? I already told you guys last time. Cora’s friend had...”

“The bar in Cabo?” Stiles interrupts, the sick, cold feeling in his stomach getting a sharper edge.

“Yes,” Derek confirms. “Look, whatever it is, I’m happy to try and help, but…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles cuts him off, again, and hangs up. 

He stares down at his phone and counts his breaths: in-two-three and out-two-three-four. His mind can’t make sense of the contradiction, leaving him in a fuzzing blank confusion he’s just aware enough to be goddamn grateful for. He only has a minute or so of avoidance, until the loft door rolls open and his head jerks up to see the proof.

“Hey babe,” Derek says. He’s standing in the doorway, Krispy Kream box in hand. “Would you believe I locked myself out? Had to circle the building like eight times before I found a good window.” He smiles and shrugs, offering up the box. “You want one of these? Or if you prefer, I’ve got some sausage right here. Yeah?”

“Works better when you don’t talk so much,” Stiles says, and his voice comes out rough. “The whole act, you know.”

The succubus stills, looking at him with a blank face that lends it a sufficiently inhuman air. In- _ werewolf _ . Stiles feels a ludicrous desire to laugh.

The monster’s eyes find the phone still in Stiles’ hands, and it makes a short noise of understanding. “Well, I guess I could have played this better.”

Stiles feels his lips peel back in a snarl. Even without a weapon or super strength he's on his feet with his fists clenched, ready to fight. “You should have fucking killed me when you had the chance, asshole.”

The succubus shakes its head. It’s taken a step back at the threat but it’s smirking anyways, and it still looks like Derek. Except that Derek wouldn’t ever have that expression, all smug cruelty and triumph rolled together into something obscene. “Kill you? No, I don’t want to do that at all.”

“Then why the fuck would you…” the succubus raises its eyebrows, and Stiles finds himself all too easily understanding the twisted logic in what it did to him the night before. “If you kill me, the rest of the pack’s still waiting, and you’ll be even more fucked when they catch up to you. But you think if you give me what I want,” he says, stomach turning over the words, “you've bought yourself a free pass.”

The thing that looks like Derek shrugs, mock-casual. “Have I?”

“What you did was  _ not _ what I wanted, you know that right?” Stiles hisses, stepping in to bring his face up right next to the succubus’. “You fucking piece of shit. When you have to  _ trick _ someone into fucking you, that's called rape.”

The succubus smiles, tilting it’s face as if Stiles is about to kiss its mouth. “Really, you didn’t like it? As I remember, you were...”

“If you say “asking for” it, I am going to disembowel you and piss on the corpse,” Stiles grits out, maintaining steady eye contact.

Derek’s face splits into a wider grin. “You were fucking  _ begging _ me.”

Stiles flinches back, assaulted by the vivid memory of doing just that: begging in pure, defenseless honesty for Derek to fuck him harder, to kiss him again, please, like that, please. He has the icy clear thought that whatever happens next, this is what he’s going to be thinking about when - if - he sees the real Derek again. This is the thing that’s going to be on his mind.

“Fuck you,” he says, his face burning with shame.

“C’mon,” the succubus says lightly. “Don’t be like that. I don’t blame you for wanting more. Best sex of your life, right? Consider it a gesture of goodwill, from me to you.”

“No,” Stiles says flatly. “No passes, forget it. I don’t make deals with murderers.”

“I'm not a murderer,” the succubus snaps, desperation suddenly written in every tense line of its body. “I was just trying to stay alive, I didn't mean to kill anyone. The Nemeton here, it makes feeding different. At first I didn’t know what was happening, I thought that woman had a heart attack or something. I only realized it was me when it happened again.” 

“Sure.” The monster still smells like Derek, just how Stiles remembers. He curls his lip in disgust, but the thing looks genuinely distressed about the deaths. “So, fine, you’re killing people on accident,” Stiles allows, sarcastically. “Still sounds like you oughta be put down, to me.” It isn’t the same as Donovan. He’s human; this thing isn’t.

“No,” the succubus insists, quiet but frantic. “I messed up with the last one, but I’m under control now. You’re alright, aren’t you? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Stiles snorts with dark amusement. ‘Alright’ is about the last thing he feels. What he feels is sore and worn down, compromised. He just wants this conversation to be over so he can forget he was ever stupid enough to let it happen. He just wants it all to be over. “Okay, then. So leave, run, disappear. Once you’re gone, the pack’s not going to find you unless you leave more bodies.” 

“I want to stay here,” the thing says. 

Stiles laughs, one sharp, harsh bark. His arms crossed tightly across his chest create a barrier that almost makes him feel in control as he paces back and forth in front of the bed that he can no longer look at.

The succubus’ eyes narrow - the exact expression Derek has when he’s annoyed. “I do. I’m sick of always moving around so people don’t get suspicious, I’m sick of having to seduce someone every night to survive. Here, I don’t need to. I can live for a week after a night like we had.”

Stiles turns on the monster with coiled intent. “In your shoes,” he says, voice trembling despite his best intentions, “I would maybe not bring up that particular experience, huh?”

“What’s your problem?” the succubus says softly, put upon. “It hurt your widdle fee-fees that last night was just pretend? McCall will  _ kill _ me for what I did to those girls. Even if I run, I know what he’s like. But you, you understand. I gave you a nice time, I didn’t hurt you, I’m coming clean now. Right? You can help me, convince him it was all a mistake.” 

Stiles takes this in. The monster’s idea of a favor is straight up fucked, and it’s operating on some damned faulty rumours if it thinks that Scott wouldn’t love to have an excuse not to kill anyone, even a succubus. But Stiles doesn't mention that, not yet. “So, what, I plead your case to my Alpha for you because you’re real sorry?” he asks instead. “Pretty big favor.”

“It's not charity,” the thing says, sauntering to the bed and sitting down. It spreads its legs a hair, leaning back so Stiles’ eyes drop, despite his intention, to the long line of Derek’s torso. “We can work something out, right?”

Stiles’ hands are in fists again, flesh gone white with the pressure. “I don’t want that.”

“Mm, really?” Derek’s voice is warm and knowing. “You know, considering the real deal’s all the way over in Cabo, you shouldn’t turn up your nose so quickly. The person I look like for you, he’s not interested. Like, left the country not interested. He only sees you as some dumb kid he used to know way back when, right?” The thing tsks with fake sympathy. “God, it’s so unfair, unrequited love! He doesn’t write, he doesn’t call…”

“We text,” Stiles snaps, and instantly regrets it as the succubus’ face lights up. It’s nothing to brag about.

“What I can do for you is so much better than a text.” The succubus reaches out a hand and trails it up Stiles’ inner thigh, making his cock twitch traitorously against his jeans. “You already know, I can make it so good.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles says weakly. “It’s just… it’d be fake.”

The thing just smiles. “It’ll feel real.”

The worst part is that Stiles knows it isn’t lying. Even now that he knows the truth, its hand between his legs feels amazing. Before he quite knows what’s happened, he’s sitting on the bed again, Derek’s hand moving with real intent over his growing erection, their faces almost close enough for kissing.

He shudders back to himself, shoves Derek’s shoulder. “Stop.”

Derek lets himself be pushed off the mattress only to kneel between Stiles’ legs. “Stiles,” he says, all full of tenderness. “It’s okay. Let me do this for you. Please?”

What’s the line between not wanting and not wanting to want? Stiles looks down at Derek’s hopeful face and he isn’t sure. He can’t help the shivery pleasure washing over him as the succubus leans in and mouths at him through his jeans, then pops the button and slowly draws his zipper down. Letting it touch him is wrong, wrong, wrong, he knows that. But last night had been the best he’d felt in months. Fuck, maybe longer than that. It had felt like someone who knew everything about him still accepted him as a good person. Still loved him.

He should have known; That kind of love isn’t something he deserves, much less gets to have. The succubus rubs Derek’s stubbled cheek against the fabric of Stiles’ boxers, sighs like it’s scratching an itch in the best way. Stiles finds himself giving up on putting up real resistance to what’s happening. Even knowing it’s not really Derek, being touched feels undeniably good. Despite everything, he can’t help but want more.

“You should have told me,” he chokes out, hating the vulnerability he’s been forced into with this stranger. This monster.

“Yeah, my bad,” the succubus says. It’s so casual, like it has no idea what consent even is, much less why it matters. But maybe a thing that lives off sex honestly  _ doesn't _ understand. And Stiles isn't really in a position to judge, he supposes. Whatever the monster did to him, he's lying about the threat Scott presents just as callously. “So, will you help me? If we have a deal, I won’t even feed off anyone else.”

Stiles tries to say no. So what if Derek - the real Derek - is still in Cabo, perfectly happy to interact exclusively via texts and two annual calls for Christmas and his birthday? To him they’re lukewarm acquaintances rather than people who’ve risked death for each other. Fine. Stiles knew all along he’s nobody’s great love, that’s no surprise. He’s hardly anyone’s friend. The only thing he’s good for is killing monsters, and that’s what he needs to do, now. No matter how reasonable it sounds, or what it looks like.

Except that... What has it ever gotten him, defending this shit-hole town? It’s gotten him a left knee that ache before it rains, more scars than he can count, a graduating GPA barely over a C average. It’s gotten him a debilitating fear of pools, needles and sleep. It’s gotten him shuttered off from other people in a way he doesn’t know how to begin fixing. Everything worthwhile in life passed him by while he was trying and failing to be the big old hero. If this twisted arrangement is the only intimacy that’s on offer, he’s not sure it’s in his power to turn it down.

Stiles takes a shuddering breath. Even with the succubus touching him like this, he still knows right from wrong. The thing is a monster; he shouldn't want this. He looks up at the ceiling again, hears Derek’s breathy little moan as his nose bumps the underside of his cock, and he pushes past the resistance. Fuck right and wrong, he’s only human. He’s going to do this. He’s at least going to give himself this one comfort.

“I work most weekends,” Stiles says, mind already tripping ahead to logistics - keeping this hidden from Scott and his dad, making sure he’s staying smart about the risks, finding a way to confirm nobody else is getting hurt. This thing is still a monster, after all, a killer. “I’ll meet you at the bar again next Thursday, and we can come here. We’re not using my place, and you don’t get keys to this one either. I say when we meet next. You don’t come looking for me.”

“Gotcha. Any other preferences?” the succubus says with a sarcastic edge, growling around the ‘r’ playfully.

Stiles breathes through his nose, almost too ashamed to say it. “Don’t be like this, for starters. Be like… like it was yesterday.”

“Boyfriend experience, no problem,” the thing says with a lascivious wink. It stands up and leans over to kiss Stiles’ cheek, then gives his leaking cock a chaste little pat. “Sorry, I'd finish you off, but I can’t say I’m really hungry yet. See you Thursday, sweetheart.”

A moment later Stiles is alone again, staring blankly at the ceiling as he slowly goes soft on Derek's bed. There’s a sickening weight in his gut at how he's letting everyone down - especially himself. But that's hardly new. It’s not that he doesn’t feel bad about what he’s arranging, it’s just that he’s so used to feeling bad about everything that it doesn’t really act as much of a deterrent these days. One more fuck up, so what? 

At least this time, there’s something to look forward to, as well. 

 

* * *

 

 

“How are you doing?”

“What?” Stiles says, too quickly. He swallows, and calms his heartbeat. It’s somehow Wednesday already, and he’s on edge. “Nothing. I mean, fine.” 

Scott looks disappointed, as best as Stiles can tell from his profile. They’re sorting through some of the old relics from the Hale vault, trying to see if anything might be useful to help them find the threat. The very threat that Stiles has already quietly neutralized. He tries hard not to think about the lies piling up ever thicker between them.

Scott clears his throat. “I thought lately you seem… Happier? More energetic.” 

Stiles’ chest is tight with all the things he can’t voice. “Yeah?” he says casually. The memory of what had happened at the loft is projected in his mind so clearly it feels like Scott must be able to see it too. In Stiles’ head, Derek is holding him close, saying _ this is what I always wanted, I love you, I'm never leaving again. _ Knowing it was fake had ruined the memory less than he'd feared. “Guess I had a good week.” He makes himself smile.

Scott smiles brightly back at him. “Good. You know, Mason and Liam and I are watching The Force Awakens tomorrow. Thought it would be cool if you came,” he offers hopefully.

“Ah,” Stiles says.  _ Thursday _ . “I’m kinda... “

“Oh. Sure, that’s cool,” Scott quickly says, accepting the unfinished refusal with a nod. He putters with two unidentified mason jars, imprudently shaking one filled with little white seashells. “Just... sometime, okay? I know it's not like it used to be with Lydia and, and Allison. Or even Malia and Kira. But they really do look up to you, you know? We're all pack.” He sets the jars back and turns fully to Stiles, big innocent puppy eyes free of any sarcasm.

“Some other time, yeah,” Stiles says into the book box he was rifling through. It would be pointless to call Scott out on it, but he’s perfectly aware the pack is fine without him. Better, even. They’re young and hopeful, benefiting from the old pack’s hard-won knowledge  - which is to say, the cautionary tale that is Stiles’ high school experience. Having him physically around is unnecessary and awkward. Sad as it is to admit, he’s a complete downer these days, too bitter to even be funny about it. 

If he’s honest, it would probably be a relief to everyone if he just disappeared. Everyone except the succubus, that is.

 

* * *

 

 

The next night Stiles is back at the dive, four drinks in and three missed texts from Scott. He has plans to get seriously drunk before his little rendezvou. Probably a good warning sign that he shouldn’t be doing it at all, but he’s not in a position to go backing out now. Not if he doesn’t want the succubus to drain some unsuspecting schmuck instead. They have an agreement.

Or - no, that’s just an excuse. This isn't for anyone else, and it’s not about sticking to his word. He wants to have another night with Derek’s doppelgänger, to be touched gently and to be reassured and to come his brains out so hard he doesn’t have to think for a minute. He has to adjust himself in his jeans just thinking about the things he could ask for, the things the succubus would happily give him.

It’s just that he’s scared that going into the night sober would make him face straight on how low he's sunk, and ruin the experience. He kind of wonders, too, if he’d notice the effects of being drained if there wasn’t the barrier of liquor. Or would it be like those bugs that inject you with something to make the hurt less? He hasn’t had the heart to research any of it. If there are any after effects, he would rather have a hangover to blame.

“Hey,” the succubus says in Derek’s voice. A thrill goes up Stiles’ spine, something between arousal and fear. He does wish it was real, that the version of Derek who actually knows him still thought he was worth sticking around for - but this version is what’s here, willing to be touched and kissed and to say all the right things. It’s good. Or anyways, it's enough. 

He turns, sees him, smiles. “Derek,” he says, and the name barely feels like a lie at all.

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up alone again, but he's expecting it this time around so it’s fine. He goes straight to work at the Rite Aide, since it’s later than he’d planned, and zombies his way through the next eight hours in last night’s clothes. For once he feels lucky that it doesn’t take more than that to pick up his admittedly meager paycheck.

After closing, he goes home to the one room apartment that Lydia had sarcastically called ‘institutional chic’ before she moved to New York for school. It's a bit minimalist, he admits. Why would he have taken time to decorate an apartment that was just a pitstop between phases of his actual life? Even though it’s turned into a longer detour than he’d planned, he still hasn’t summoned the energy - or finances - to personalize the place much.

The problem was, senior year he’d been too busy holding the pack together and keeping everyone from fucking dying to put much thought into applying for financial aid or acing his SATs. So no, he hadn’t made it to college right out of high school, though even Malia “I was a werecoyote teen” had managed to get into UCLA. He'd at least got out of his childhood home, and he planned on going to college the next year, when things calmed down. Gap years to save up money weren’t so unusual. Except then… then somehow things didn’t get calmer, and college hadn’t happened the next year, either.

Besides, by that time he was thinking he didn’t really need a college degree. Hell, his own dad didn't have one. Everyone had assured him he'd do fine without, and he’d been looking into following in the Sheriff’s footsteps directly to the BHPD. Until he'd also failed the physical ability test after bruising his ribs during a bad run-in with some dumb Omega, that is. There’s another application waiting on his desk somewhere, but he’s pretty sure the deadline for this term’s already passed. No doubt he should be more proactive, if he’s as serious about it as he assures his dad he is when it comes up at dinner, but fuck it. It’s hard to find the energy to take care of everything day-to-day, much less think about his future. What use would it be, anyways? Another supernatural horror is always going burst onto the scene and ruin things no matter what he plans. Getting his hopes up just means farther to fall. For the foreseeable, it’s just glorious retail work paying the bills, and Stiles was an idiot for expecting anything more.

He drops his sweatshirt on the floor on the way to the kitchen - nobody to impress here -  and is trying to decide if the crusty dishes can wait another few days when his phone buzzes yet again.

He pulls it out to with a sigh and finally texts Scott back - yeah, Mason does look hilarious with his cheeks puffed full of popcorn; yeah, his night went fine, too. No, sorry, no pictures. Then he finally thumbs over to the texts from Derek that he'd received the day after the call. He figures he’s got a handle on his emotions now, enough that he can do this small thing.  _ Off work now, can you tell me whats up?  _ he reads. _ Is the pack alright? Are you alright?  _

Stiles huffs a laugh and closes out of the screen without bothering to craft one of his usual quippy, desperate replies. If Derek was really worried he’d have called back. After admitting the sheer implausibility of what happened with the fake version - he  _ really _ should have known - it’s easier to see that to the real Derek, Stiles is just an ex-pack member, part of the past. A memory to be triggered when the obnoxious American tourists come through: oh yeah, remember the funny sidekick to the True Alpha, the human liability, that guy? If that. It’s time he wised up to the fact that Derek left them all without a second look back, and that he’d probably had the right idea getting away from a person like Stiles.

 

* * *

 

 

Not even four days later, Stiles is at the bar again as promised, with drink number... something weaving blurry in front of him. He’s not sure if what he's feeling for tonight is anticipation or dread, but it's a feeling, and the bright intensity of it is a nice change of pace compared to the deadened going-through-the-motions monotony of work and neo-pack bullshit and awkward bi-weekly dinners with Dad where they dance around what a fat waste of time Stiles has turned into. The exhaustion is getting harder to shake. He’s ignored four more texts from the other, real Derek over the weekend, and even a phone call. He’d deleted the voice message. Petty, perhaps, but it’s freeing to finally be the one who cares less rather than the one pathetically hanging his happiness on a long text exchange. This is Stiles’ life now, and he’s making the best of it.

“Stiles?” 

He shuts his eyes at the achingly familiar voice. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, half to himself. He slides off the stool and grabs the monster’s wrist for balance. When he’s got his feet under him he slings his arm over the thing’s broad shoulders for support. His own personal murder-and-sex toy, a fun and easy lay if you forget the part where it's an amoral monster. Or is that him, considering? Who’s more the monster, the monster or the jackass who sucks him off? Stiles giggles a little at his own silent joke.

The succubus doesn’t laugh with him. In fact, it’s absurdly tense, considering this is their third go-around. Stiles squints over at it in confusion. At  _ him _ . Derek. 

The real version looks tired like the succubus doesn't, has pronounced crows feet around his eyes and a hint of laugh lines framing his mouth. Even in the low, red light of the bar Stiles can spot flecks of grey in the facial hair that's more beard than sculpted scruff these days.

“You're drunk,” real Derek points out as if Stiles has done it specifically to annoy him. “And you smell like…” worry flashes across his face. 

“I'm fine,” Stiles says loudly, shoving Derek away with his heart pounding. The flush on his cheeks might seem like nothing more compromising than the effects of too much liquor, and he doesn’t want Derek to smell the shame on him. He looks around the bar for the succubus, panicked. Scott hadn’t been able to pick up a scent at the crime scenes, but Derek? A born wolf, right next to the thing? Stiles isn’t taking chances.

Derek crosses his arms and glares down his nose, as if it's five years back and he has to convince them that yes, the supernatural is going to have a negative effect on their high school careers. Great. Where's Mr. Zen Wolf now? 

“What are you even doing here?” Stiles sneers. He’s too drunk for this, he needs to get away from this conversation before something humiliating gets revealed, like how he’s blackmailing a monster with Derek’s face to get his nut off. 

“Your call, you worried me,” Derek says accusingly. “You're not answering my texts.” 

“Oh shit, I wasn’t texting back? Call 911,” Stiles says sarcastically, letting his whole head loll in exasperation. “I've been busy, sue me.”

“Scott’s worried about you, too.”

Stiles’ hackles raise at that. “You talk about me with Scott? What are you, my mom?”

“You weren't answering,” Derek says defensively. “I thought something had happened.”

As if he cares now, when it’s too late to salvage anything. “Fuck off.” 

Derek stares at him, baffled. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Stiles spits. “You did absolutely  _ nothing _ .” 

Derek opens his mouth, but stops himself and looks around. Even at this bar, their argument is starting to draw stares. “Look,” he says more quietly, “I’ll drive you home. Can we go?” He reaches out and takes Stiles’ wrist.

Stiles shakes him off. “I'm meeting someone.”  

Derek blinks, a few times, like a machine trying to process. “Oh.” 

Good, let him chew on that. Somebody wants Stiles, imagine it! Derek might not see him as a sexual being, but there are people out there who do. Or so Stiles’ lie implies. Finally, Stiles spots the succubus over real Derek’s shoulder by the door. He jerks his chin at it, directing it to meet him outside, and then elbows past Derek to follow. 

He herds the succubus around a corner, but from there he doesn’t have any smart plans. They can't risk the loft, not when Derek-the-first might go there. God, what if he smells what’s gone on, what Stiles has done in his bed? Stiles shakes his head. Nothing he can do about that, now. 

“Who was that?” the doppelganger asks.

“Who do you think?” Stiles snaps. Can’t it recognize the thing it looks like? They need to leave quickly, before said Derek follows him out. “You know he’s a ‘wolf. Can he smell you, what you are?”

“No,” it says, but it sounds nervous. Maybe not scent, then, but something will give it away. Stiles curses under his breath.

In the end, he takes the monster home. It’s too intimate by miles; he eats here, he  _ sleeps _ here. But even though his skin is crawling with the risks, there’s nowhere else to go; he doesn’t have the money to drop on a hotel, that’s for damn sure. And if he doesn't do it, if he just calls it off... Then the monster goes somewhere else, and drains someone who doesn't have the defenses Stiles does. If something happens to them, it’s on Stiles head for not taking care of this the way he promised to.

Besides, he want this. He does. He wants to forget the real Derek's disdain, his whole shitty life and all the dumb mistakes that have led him here. Losing his mind in demanding physical sensation is the best thing he can imagine right now. It’ll be nice to be distracted for an hour or two, to pretend that he’s funny and hot and smart. 

Once they're inside, he presses a desperate kiss to the monster's mouth, seeking the usual electric thrill of touching it. The feeling doesn’t quite come, but maybe that’s the excess of liquor. The fake Derek growls with arousal, like the real one might, and then he’s grabbing at Stiles’ body, stripping his clothes off, biting little claiming marks into Stiles’ exposed skin as they shuffle back into the apartment. 

Having any version of Derek laid out naked in his bed should be the culmination of every teen fantasy he’s ever had, but frustratingly enough, it’s not. What a halfhearted copy the succubus is, Stiles realizes: stubble too even, muscles as cut and symmetrical as a Ken doll, not a wrinkle in sight. Stiles isn’t even sure the thing has  _ pores _ . This airbrushed version of Derek isn’t worth half of what he’s offered up to have it, he realizes.

The knowledge sinks into his gut like cold lead, but it's come too late. The deal is done, stopping now won’t change anything. When has he ever made a good choice, anyways? He rolls up onto his knees so at least he doesn’t have to see the tells any more, and when the monster pushes against his entrance, hot and insistent, that part feels right. Stiles grips at his headboard, bears down on the blunt intrusion, tries to shrink his mind down to the burning sensation and the rough grip on his hips. The Derek behind him fucks like he’s proving a point, nails his prostate almost every time at an angle that sends electric pleasure rushing through him.

This time, though, the physical electricity isn't enough to shut up the running commentary in his head.  _ You pathetic sicko, is this really the best you can do? Derek’s going to find out and then everyone will find out, Dad will be so fucking disappointed, as if he isn’t enough already, can you imagine that they actually used to think you were the smart one, the one who figured things out? Well, figure this out: how are they all gonna look at you once they know you begged a monster for a pity fuck? _

Stiles presses his face into the crook of his own elbow, squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn’t slow down the manic litany of his failures. Couldn’t the monster drain some of this away, along with his lifeforce or whatever? Couldn’t it just keep pulling from him until his brain went quiet and black and he was allowed to just be finished? It’s not fair. This stupid sex thing is supposed to  _ help _ , it’s supposed to make things more manageable. Right now it’s doing anything but.

“Can you actually  _ try _ for a second? To make this good?” he demands, leveraging his headboard to look back at the thing that’s using him, that he’s using in turn. “This isn't working for me.”

“God, you're so beautiful. You're perfect for me,” Derek says, sincere enough the words sound mocking. “I love you so much.”

It was always going to be vague platitudes; the monster’s got a decent approximation of the right body, but Stiles has known since the first time that there’s no soul underneath. Only now, the broad strokes seem especially empty compared to the real Derek who’s lurking somewhere near, all paternalistic and infuriating but  _ real _ . 

Stiles’ distracted grip is jarred off-center by the monster’s harsh, clipped thrusts, and his face smacks into the headboard, his cheekbone hitting the wood hard. The Derek behind him doesn't even pause at his yelp of pain. 

In the end, Stiles gets off anyways, even with his cheek pulsing insistently with a hot, sharp ache. He’d been determined to salvage something from the night, and he’d done it, straddling the monster to give himself the illusion of control, feeling Derek’s muscles moving between his thighs, Derek’s chest hair on his palms. He’d made himself forget that it was only the manifestation of his ideas, not the real thing, and he’d come. After, the thing had levered out of him quickly, even faster than the afterglow took to evaporate, and it had left him alone on the cooling sheets with a demeaning wink.

Stiles isn’t sure exactly what all it says about him, that he asked for this, but he has a pretty solid idea it isn’t good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thanks much for reading, leaving kudos (?) and commenting (???) because that is what gives me life. I hope that you'll stick around for the next parts! Chapter three will be up tomorrow, and the end will be posted Sunday. In the meantime, come yell at me on [tumblr](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

Hobbling around his place next morning, Stiles figures he’ll use his day off to actually make himself breakfast for once. Or to pour some stale Lucky Charms into a bowl and and realize he never bought more milk, anyways. He’s considering the pros and cons of eating the stuff dry versus skipping the meal when Derek lets himself in through the window.

Stiles yelps, startling hard enough to toss chalky marshmallows everywhere. “Do you even…! This is my...! _Knock,_ why don’t you?!”

Derek doesn’t bother to apologize; he’s on Stiles in an instant. “What happened?” he demands, thumbing the bruise that’s blossomed into a swollen purple monstrosity overnight. Stiles twitches his face out of Derek’s hands.

“Fell into a door,” he says flatly. You wouldn’t need to be a ‘wolf to catch the blatant lie, but it isn’t as if he’s got a better rationalization in his pocket. _Damn it._ He’d forgotten about the mark once he’d figured he didn’t have to leave the house for a few days. Why is Derek picking now to go all nosily protective, when it's too late to even matter?

“Stiles,” Derek says, softly, half reprimand and half plea.

“Derek,” Stiles snaps, a challenge thrown back in his teeth.

His expression must show enough of the rage he’s feeling that Derek cuts his eyes away and steps back, crunching cereal underfoot. The noise draws his attention the mess on the floor, for the first time it seems. He looks around for a broom, and the general state of the counters and floor seems to hit him, too. He doesn’t find a broom - there isn’t one to find - and instead he drops awkwardly to his knees and starts to clean up with his hands.

After a moment, Stiles sets his mostly-empty bowl aside and kneels, too. Both of them gather the sugary bits off the linoleum in silence, scooping handfuls into the trash, careful to keep even the tips of their fingers from touching. Once they’ve picked up what they can without the right tools, Derek dusts his hands off into the sink and rinses his hands. Stiles wipes the last sticky residue off on his sweats.

Stiles watches Derek hover for a second over the dishes piled precariously in the sink. Then he turns the water back on, hot, and starts methodically washing them, laying a towel on counter to set them on to dry. The kitchen is silent except for the shushing of the faucet, the slosh it makes in the filling sink, the soft ceramic clinks of dishes tapping together.

Anger leeches out of Stiles, leaving a blank nothing in its wake. He half feels like he should stop Derek from doing his stupid chores, or at least crack some apologetic joke about the moldy leftovers crusted at the bottom of the bowls, but he doesn’t. There’s no way to summon the energy to be irritated, much less transmute that into their usual banter.

When the towel runs out of space, Derek stops, leaving the water running over the last few dishes. He looks lost, standing there at Stiles’ sink with a mostly clean plate in his hands, the sluicing water burbling wasted down the sink.

“What are you doing, Stiles?” he says softly.

_Killing myself slow enough it looks like an accident_ , Stiles thinks, his breath catching in his lungs. Even though it's the first time he's admitted it to himself, the thought feels as comfortable as an old shoe.

“Beacon Hills is a hellhole,” he says instead, as if the fault lies with the place and not him. “You got out while the getting was good.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Stiles clears his throat. “I wasn’t being sarcastic, I mean it. You should stay gone.”

“I only left because I thought it would be better for you - for everyone - if I did,” Derek says stiffly.

Stiles shrugs carelessly. He doesn't trust his voice. How could Derek being gone be better?

“Look, I fucked up with Isaac, with… with Erica. And God, Boyd.” Derek sets the plate in the sink and stops the faucet. “It was my call to involve them in this world, and I didn’t think about the danger. I didn’t warn them. They were my responsibility and I…” Derek sucks a breath in through his teeth and visibly settles himself. Stiles wonders vaguely if he ever got therapy, if that was part of the shift they’d all noticed.

“I couldn’t go back in time and fix what happened to them, but I thought I could stop myself from making it worse,” Derek continues. “Maybe that was just a fancy way to excuse running away, I don’t know. If you’re still pissed and you don't want to talk to me about whatever’s going on, I get it. Fine. Cut me out, stop answering my texts, I won't argue. I know I don't deserve your confidence. But Scott's here, and he wants to help. He’s your Alpha. You’re not alone, Stiles, you have a pack. You can tell them what’s going on.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. If Derek only knew, he wouldn’t be so confident. “I can't,” he says, and even those two words do it, his voice cracks. “Look, you've done your due diligence here. Now, can you please get out of my house?”

“Not if- “ Derek starts.

“Just go,” Stiles interrupts in a tone that’s no less firm for it’s low volume. “Please.”

He's not sure if he's relieved or disappointed when Derek does.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles goes to the Jungle to meet the succubus the next week, as agreed, making sure they avoid the bar and the possibility of running into the real deal. Over-cautious, probably. He and Derek haven’t actually seen each other since the day in his kitchen, but he’s rebuffed him a few more times via text, and he hasn’t picked up any of his calls. It’s likely he's back in Cabo, by now, and Stiles tries to feel good about that. He'd just be doing what Stiles asked, after all. They both know it would be a waste of time for Derek to keep trying to get Stiles’ life back on anything resembling the track.

Stiles had chosen the club as a meeting spot because he thought it might turn him on to dance among all these over-heated, ecstatic bodies. He wanted to be in the right mindset to enjoy the succubus’ unique talents, unlike last time, so he’s here early. Usually the pulsing bass and all the skin on display would do it, but tonight he doesn’t feel a thing. Not even jealous of the other men who are actually enjoying themselves. His own body seems to move awkwardly, all flailing joints and too-long bones like it hasn’t been since high school, so he gives up on the dance floor and goes upstairs for a bit of air. From up there, he has a view of the crowd.

And it’s from up there that he spots Derek. It’s the real one, Stiles realizes with a thrill. His back is to the wall in the darkest corner the club has, but from up here he sticks out - to Stiles’ eyes at least. Even from a floor away Stiles can see way he scowls at the room rather than slinking in close to the dancers, the way his shoulders hunch towards his ears every time someone bobbles too close. Stiles can’t tell if he's happy or furious at Derek’s meddling. Why the fuck is Derek still lurking around Beacon Hills when Stiles has made it clear he’s unsalvageable? What does the guy think he has to accomplish here, to ease his conscience?

Stiles is drunk enough, or desperate enough, that he walks right down the stairs and over to the dark corner so he can ask Derek just that to his face. He pushes over through the crowd and steps in close.

Before Derek’s eyes even focus on him he demands, “why are you everywhere, Jesus, how did you even know I was here?”

“I followed you,” Derek says, shouting just above the music volume.

“Since when?”

Derek looks confused. “All day…?”

Stiles shocks himself by laughing. It’s just that this feels so familiar, Derek’s utter lack of social graces. His determination, however misplaced. “Why are you so weird?” Stiles finally shouts, since Derek is only looking more confused at his laughter. “Just, you were like this in high school, too, with Scott. We're brothers now! The Bite is a Gift!”

“It’s not weird,” Derek protests, crossing his arms. “This is how pack works, it's what we do.”

Stiles’ humor sours a little; he’s not sure they ever really qualified as a pack, and he’s suddenly aware that they’ve moved too close to each other while trying to be heard over the dulcet tones of Nicki Minaj. He’s opening his mouth argue that they're hardly pack mates anymore, if they ever were, when he feels a hand slide intimately over his shoulder.

The succubus, of course, the one way this situation gets worse. Stiles was stupid to turn his back to the crowd, to let himself be surprised like this. Derek’s eyes flick over, his expression suddenly guarded.

Stiles looks too. It's surreal to have them side by side, the real deal and the dream version. It’s even more clear how far short his fantasy falls. The succubus looks photoshopped, hasn’t got bloodshot eyes or the couple ingrown hairs under its jaw. It’s the one who’s inarguably something out of a wet dream, or a porno, only somehow it doesn’t tug at Stiles’ insides the way the worn mirror image beside it does.

Derek is still tense, looking at the newcomer as if he’s not quite sure what to make of him or her or whatever the monster looks like to him. Stiles watches the succubus finally look hard at Derek. It hadn’t realized it was him, only that Stiles was talking to something that wasn’t it. Stiles sees the moment the monster recognizes the trouble it’s in, now. Panic skitters briefly across its features.

And then Stiles realizes, a bare second before it happens, that it’s turning its magic on Derek, that it’s going to do the thing where it appears as the person he truly wants to see. His hand spasms on the succubus’ wrist, but it does nothing to stop what’s happening.

To Stiles, the succubus’ features slide into those of some blandly hot guy, and he knows Derek must be seeing a specific someone, now. Only, who?

“Hey you,” the succubus says warmly, dropping the arm around Stiles unceremoniously to put it on Derek’s chest.

Stiles’ throat closes up as he helplessly watches Derek blinking, brows knitting, confused if it’s a trick of his eyes in the low light or if he really didn’t recognize...

“Braeden?” Derek says, head quirking in pure confusion.

Stiles hadn’t anticipated it, though he should have, and he feels his heart go skittering rabbit-fast as realization rolls through him. Braeden? Only it makes sense, plenty of sense. Obviously if Derek wants someone, he gets to have them, and the one person Derek took with him when he went was Braeden.

When they left, Scott had said he thought they were an item. _You know, together,_ he’d said with a waggle of eyebrows. Stiles had said no, Derek wouldn’t trust her enough to sleep with her, she was a fucking mercenary. Besides, the two of them hadn’t been friends long enough for that, not when it had taken Derek months and months to warm up to the pack, to Stiles, it must just be they were working together to track the Desert Wolf or, or, or… he’s pathetic. Of course they were fucking. More than that; she’s the one person Derek really wants to see.

“But you were going to… you’re…” Derek says. His nostrils flare as he homes in on the monster's scent. “Succubus,“ he rumbles low, fangs poking out of his snarl despite the crowd around them. Stiles wants to melt into the floor. After that realization, it’s only a matter of time before the rest is laid bare and Derek knows what a disgusting creep Stiles is.

The monster seems to realize that Derek would actually attack him, even in the very public club, at the same time Stiles does. It darts off into the crowd and is lost before any violence actually commences. Smart monster, Stiles thinks blankly. If only he could run from his problems as effectively.

Derek takes a half step to chase it, but then he jerks to a halt and looks at Stiles. He growls, or seems to from his expression; any actual noise he might have made is lost in the music. He grabs Stiles and drags him towards the door, and then outside, into a quiet alley. Stiles lets himself be manhandled, too ashamed to look at Derek, much less resist.

“Stiles, that was a succubus, the person you’ve been meeting was a _succubus_.”

“Oh no. Are you sure?” Stiles deadpans, focusing intently on Derek’s left collarbone.

Derek makes a small noise of surprise at that. And then he’s furious. “How long?” he demands hotly, shoving Stiles’ shoulder back into the brick wall.

Stiles opens his mouth to lie, but finds he doesn’t care enough. “A few weeks.”

Derek doesn't fill the silence, and he doesn’t slam Stiles into the wall harder like Stiles was half hoping he would. Instead he takes a step back and waits.

Against his better instincts Stiles starts talking again. “I mean, I didn’t know right off. Obviously. The first time was just...” He slides down the wall and sits on the dirty asphalt, not really caring how gross the ground is out here. “But then it, you know, it told me what it was. And that it wanted to stay in Beacon Hills because of the Nemeton.” He skirts around why it had confessed, eliding the details of his shameful deal. “So it’s, I mean, it’s not tricking me. I knew. And it’s not killing anymore, I check all the obits. It’s not even hurting anyone, so,” Stiles shrugs.

“Yes it is,” Derek says. “It’s hurting you.”

Stiles blinks up, surprised. “No, it never…” he cuts himself off, realizing it’s stupid to argue that it had never hurt him with his face still mottled green under an ill-matched concealer that Lydia had left behind. “It was just doing what I asked for.” He doesn’t say why he has been so willing to ask for it, but Derek knows by now. He has to. The call a few weeks back, Stiles’ reaction when he first showed up... Stiles has no illusions he’s keeping a secret, but he can’t say it to Derek’s face. He just can’t. And Derek, for his part, seems content to let Stiles save that last illusion of dignity, which Stiles is pathetically grateful for.

Derek sinks down awkwardly to sit next to him, and he sounds genuinely compassionate when he says, “You need to stop. The pack can take care of this from here, it’s not safe for you.”

“But…”

“You can’t really know it isn’t feeding on other people. If it goes rogue and kills again, you’ll never forgive yourself. You need to stop.”

“Yeah,” Stiles admits, his voice raw with regret and unshed tears. “Yeah, I know.” He can’t pretend he doesn’t, anymore. “Just, when you… when you tell the pack what it is, don't tell them this part,” he pleads. “That I knew, or at least not what I’ve been… just, don’t tell Scott. Please.”

“He wouldn't blame you,” Derek says. “You didn’t do anything to blame.”

Stiles laughs bitterly. “Oh yeah? It's probably killing someone right now because of me. Fuck! I should have turned him over to the pack that first day, I knew that. I should have known that.” He presses the heels of his hands hard into his eyes.

“You're not responsible for what it does.”

Stiles shakes his head. He feels so childish, making Derek comfort him when it’s the last thing he deserves. In what fucking world is he not responsible for this? He killed Donovan partially out of fear for his dad, and now strangers are dying on account of his wanting Derek so badly he’d make a deal with the devil to have him. Stiles loves all wrong. Something inside him turns it twisted and malignant, and caring always ends up with blood on his hands. It occurs to him, not for the first time, that if he and his mother could have swapped places it would have been a favor for everyone.

Derek gets up, face set. “I’m going to fix this. It won't hurt anyone else. Okay?”

“Derek, wait, this isn’t your…” Stiles says, as Derek’s leather jacket disappears supernaturally fast around the corner, “...problem,” he finishes softly into the empty night.

 

* * *

 

 

It doesn’t take long for Stiles to get cold in his skimpy clubbing clothes, so he goes home. Derek will know where to find him, anyways. Even once he gets inside, he can’t calm down. He paces, pulls on an old sweatshirt, starts compulsively tidying up. He’s too nervous to sit still at all until Derek comes back, hours later.

“I just wanted to let you know that it’s over,” Derek says, the phrasing weirdly formal for someone who just crawled in through a window. “The succubus didn’t hurt anyone tonight, and it won’t ever again.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says, his throat dry enough it clicks when he swallows. “I’m glad that… that you’re okay,” he says. Weirdly enough, he finds that he’s sorry the succubus isn’t. That it’s dead because of him - if he’s correct about what Derek’s implied, anyway. For the second time that night Stiles finds himself talking despite his better judgement, because again Derek is just standing there rather than leaving. “Did you really kill him? Just, I mean, he seemed reasonable enough, right? I could have kept... “

Derek fixes him with a flat look that’s got hot rage just under it. “No. Succubi aren’t fighters but they’re master manipulators. Letting it feed from you this often? It would have killed you, eventually. Sooner rather than later.”

Stiles blinks, opening his mouth to deny he felt that weak after being drained… except he finds he can’t. How exhausted and worn down he’s been over the last few weeks, it’s been unusual. Even for him. “Shit,” he mutters. How stupid could he be? Not even researching the drain, drinking to cover the symptoms, it’s a wonder he didn’t manage to die after all. “Jesus, I’m such a fuckup.”

“No. You weren't causing this. It was a monster. This is what it does.”

“I know,” Stiles snaps. “I _knew_ it was a monster.” Maybe, he thinks, that’s why he could understand it so well; he’s a killer too. “I know you’re supposed to slay them, or put them in Eichen house, or something. You’re not supposed make quid pro quo deals, but...” He gestures at his chest with a big, sarcastic smile. _You’re not supposed to be this fucking stupid, but I am._

“No. Stiles, no,” Derek insists. “This is not on you. Succubi don’t attack head on because they don't need to. They prey on the parts that make you human, they craft whole personas that are exactly calibrated to win you over where you’re vulnerable. They’ll let you see one lie just so you miss the second one.”

“Vulnerable,” Stiles echos dully. “Oh.”

“No,” Derek shoots back. “This isn’t on you, I didn’t say that to make it your fault. You didn't deserve this.”

“I think I did, a little.” Stiles says, and in his mind he sees Derek's face leering at him saying, _you were fucking begging me_.

“No.”

Stiles makes a dismissive noise from the back of his throat. “No, no, no... come on! You’re a broken record. None, honestly? Just… zero?”

“Zero.”

“How can you possibly say that?” Stiles explodes. “You don’t know what I did, what I asked for. How can you be so sure I’m innocent here?”

“Pretty much the same way I know I’m not responsible for what Kate did.”

Stiles balks. “That’s not the same.”

“You’re right, this thing had magical powers to manipulate your judgement and feelings, Kate was just a hunter.”

“That’s not what I meant. She was... “ Derek raises his eyebrows and Stiles tries to think of something he can say that Derek can’t turn back on himself. “You were only a kid,” Stiles says low and forceful. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“You’re right, but I didn’t think so back then. Laura had to believe it for me. Right now, I’m believing it for you. So, trust me when I say that it’s not your fault.” Derek fixes him with a steady look, willing him to agree. He's so calm and sure.

“Whatever,” Stiles says after a long moment. Derek seems to take it as an agreement, which is a relief because the hedging about as good as Stiles can do at the moment.

So they’re done. Stiles figures this is where it ends; he’s been successfully pulled back from the ledge and chided out of calling himself a terrible human being out loud. Derek can go off satisfied with his good deed and leave them all yet again, Scott can step in in to forgive him yet again, his father can reset his expectations lower yet again, and Stiles can keep being the puzzle piece in the new pack that will never quite fit, ever again.

But when Derek turns, it’s towards the kitchen instead of the front door. He opens Stiles’ fridge, purses his lips, then examines the cupboards. Stiles knows that what food he has is meager pickings, but Derek’s doing a good job of checking his disappointment. He pulls a tin of olives out of the fridge, and sets them on the counter.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, not letting himself guess.

“Cooking dinner,” Derek says simply.  “You should eat something. It’ll take me a while to whip anything up, so if you’d like a shower, go ahead.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Stiles reminds him. He says it because the sight of Derek in his kitchen, trying to take care of him, is kindling a needy hope inside him and he’s not sure if that’s an impulse he should fight or cling to, considering where his impulses have led lately. Either way, good or bad, he needs Derek to understand he owes Stiles nothing. Knowing that the disaster with the succubus is over, that’s enough. Derek’s done enough.

“I do,” Derek says softly. “Just... I want to do everything I can, this time. I want to do it right.”

_Ah_. Stiles nods jerkily, even though Derek isn’t watching. He’s been caught up in his own regrets and he managed to forget that Derek has his own damage, his own ghosts. If cooking a meal for a friend in need feels like forgiveness to him, Stiles is glad for it. Even if the kindness is more accurately owed to Isaac, Erica and Boyd, Stiles will be thankful for what he gets.

Stiles does shower while Derek boils some lentils dug up from the far reaches of his cabinets. He stands under the hot spray until his shoulders go patchy red, not letting himself think. He lathers his hands with soap and scrubs his chest, his underarms, the hair at his groin. He doesn’t look down at himself. Nothing’s really changed, he thinks sternly. He’s the same old Stiles as he was yesterday, and he wasn’t breaking down then. Whatever happened to him was only what he asked for, and it wasn’t a big deal.

When he’s done he doesn’t feel clean, exactly, but he doesn’t feel dirty either. Fragile, maybe. A little breakable.

They eat together in silence. The lentils and olive dish Derek prepared seems like it’s trying to be mediterranean, but it’s failing. Honestly, it’s kind of gross. Stiles doesn’t say anything, though. Derek doesn’t say anything either, even when Stiles ducks his head and wipes his eyes on his wrists. He tries to make it look like he’s just scratching an itch or adjusting his hair. He knows it can’t be as subtle as he wishes.

After they finish, Derek rinses the dishes and herds Stiles into the bedroom. Stiles crawls under the covers, bundled in the sweats and t-shirt he’d put on after the shower, and it doesn’t feel confusing like he was worried it might to have Derek in his bedroom. His eyes are drooping already, his whole body trying to go offline to recuperate from a tension he hadn’t acknowledged until it was gone.

“You want me to get out of here?” Derek says, hesitant for the first time. “If it makes you uncomfortable…”

“No,” Stiles interrupts. “Stay.” He watches Derek’s silhouette settle into his cramped desk chair, and before he knows it, he’s drifted off into heavy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aahh, uphill from here.
> 
> Thanks much for reading, leaving kudos (?) and commenting (???) because that is what gives me life. I hope that you'll stick around for the next parts! The last chapter will be posted Sunday. In the meantime, come yell at me on [tumblr](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/).


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles’ carefully insular life is unavoidably upended after that, because Derek tells everyone how he’s really doing - Not the specifics, thankfully, but enough. 

“Stiles, oh my God,” Scott says, crushing him in a hug. “Oh my God, I thought you were hanging out with other people, cooler people, I had no idea something like that was getting to you, I should have noticed, I  _ did _ notice, but I thought it was just… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles said, patting his friend’s back uncomfortably. He tries to remember the last time Scott’s just dropped by like this, unannounced, and finds that he can’t.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about Theo,” Scott says, jerking Stiles back by the shoulders to look him in the eye. “No, listen. When I apologized before, I made it sound like we both fucked up the same, but I know you didn’t get turned around like I did. You never bought into his bullshit. Back when it first happened I think I just didn’t want to admit that I’d messed up that bad, and then it was like… we’d already forgotten it, so I didn’t want to bring it up again and remind you what a dick I was.”

Stiles squirms. “You don’t have to. Over and done.”

“But it’s not,” Scott insists earnestly. “Things between us are still weird. You don’t trust me, you don’t want to hang out. Not that I blame you, but…” 

“I thought you didn’t want to,” Stiles blurts out, interrupting. “You’ve got Liam, and Mason, and…”

“Oh my God,” Scott says again. “I want to so bad. You don’t even understand. It’s like, every time you complained about me and Allison? Liam is the same with Hayden, and I suddenly get why you made so much fun of me. He’s literally the worst. You have no idea how much I want you there, Stiles.”

Stiles surprises himself by laughing, and then Scott laughs too, and hugs him again, and it feels a little bit more like they’re actually best friends than it has in a long time.

After that, Scott is omnipresent. Stiles’ Dad is the same, fussing over him and hugging him hello and calling him on his work breaks. Every night that isn’t an enforced family dinner - which happens a full four nights a week, now - is a pack night. Neither his Dad nor Scott will take no for an answer, anymore. Liam and Mason visit him at work, too, picking up candy or paper towels as an excuse to chat. Hayden really does occupy 90% of Liam’s brain, Stiles notes with a nostalgic smirk.

It’s not just the new pack, either. There’s Lydia, who insists on skyping for an hour and a half as soon as she gets wind of the trouble, and nearly buys a ticket back to visit during her finals week until he talks her down to waiting at least until winter break. There’s also Malia and Kira, who actually do visit over the weekend despite the eight hour drive from LA. 

Stiles wants to hate Derek for the exaggerated love-fest coming at him from all sides, but he’s so relieved at how nobody seems to pity him that he can’t be mad at all. His most recent contacts now are always the pack - old and new. He doesn’t always text back, when it gets overwhelming, but they don’t seem to mind. It’s good, having the social contact. Just talking to them regularly makes him feel almost like himself. His old self.

Even so, there’s therapy, too. Derek had gone himself, as Stiles had guessed, and pushes a referral on him. The group knows about the supernatural, he explains, and they’re expecting to see Stiles.  _ Soon _ . His eyebrows indicate that he means business. Stiles creases the paper in his hand, grimacing, but he does go.

He sort of thinks that the therapist will be horrified by him, what with the suicidal ideation he’s finally put a name to, the way he’d been half hoping the succubus would slip up one more time and finish him off. They stick you in institutions for things like that, don’t they? But his therapist, a charming man named Teddy who’s only ten years older than him and sports tattoos and blue hair, smiles gently and assures him that putting him under observation wouldn’t be his professional recommendation, unless it would make Stiles feel safer. Funny, Stiles thinks wryly, that a trained therapist trusts him more than he does himself.  Half aware that putting himself back in a place that would remind him of Eichen House would be a form of punishment more than a way to get better, Stiles opts to stick with their weekly session and stay in his apartment.

Teddy is much less judgy than Stiles had envisioned, unfazed by even his worst admissions. It makes it easier to admit the things that need admitting. Still, it takes quite some time for Stiles to start seeing changes in his mood and life; longer than he wants. It takes gentle prodding to get him to acknowledge the benefits even when they do come. Eventually he learns how to see it, though: He does a better job keeping up with friends knowing that Teddy will ask him about it, and he gets into a couple community college courses after he gets sick of telling Teddy how he wants to do it, really, but hasn’t yet because of… reasons. He gets a promotion at work, which means a bit more money and a more regular schedule.

So there it is, he’s actually doing well, relatively speaking. Meanwhile, Derek... Derek is quietly sticking around. Stiles had kind of thought he’d go back to Cabo and his bar when Stiles stopped looking like he’d slit his wrists given half the chance, but he hasn’t. He has some things shipped up from Mexico, gets a job at Mercy’s. Stiles doesn’t go to the loft, but he hears from Scott that Derek’s refurbishing it.

Everything is going well six months later, which is when Braeden makes plans to come to Beacon Hills right around the anniversary of Donovan's death. Kira’s the one to mention it to Stiles, on one of her visits. He tries to be cool about the development, which means venting and ranting and crying to Teddy, and putting on a good face for Derek and the pack. This is what emotionally mature looks like for him, Stiles guesses.

He's geared himself up for the inevitable reunion: he’s all ready to congratulate Derek on his new girlfriend. He’s even role played it with Teddy, and gotten to the point where he doesn’t sweetly point out that murder must be a turn-on for Derek considering his history, because that’s cruel and untrue. Braeden is a mercenary, yes, but who among them hasn’t killed? She’s no Kate. He should be happy for Derek, even if this means the two of them are leaving together, again.

Only then he finds out that Braeden is staying at a hotel rather than at the loft with Derek. And then... she leaves. And Derek still stays.

“We're not together,” Derek says about three days after, apropos of nothing. “Me and Braeden. Haven’t been for a while. We figured out the hard way, back in Mexico, that it wasn’t going to work long term.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “Sorry to hear that.” But he probably doesn’t manage to sound sorry at all, because Derek has to bite back a smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Almost a year after the succubus first tracked him down, Stiles realizes that he doesn’t involuntarily snort when Teddy says that he’s not permanently broken by the things that have happened to him. Or when he repeats, for Teddy’s benefit, the fact that what the nogitsune and the succubus did was not his fault. He’s actually started to internalize those things, on top of figuring out how to get through everyday life without letting his supernaturally-assisted traumas drag him down into another major depressive episode. 

Which isn’t to say that it’s all been uphill; just when he starts making progress on his generalized self loathing, the shame and revulsion of the rape comes rearing up; just when that’s starting to seem manageable, regret about his severely circumscribed career options threatens to swallow him. Even after talking around the same issues for hours and hours, he isn’t fixed the way he once dreamed of being. The self-hatred comes back full force every now and again, even after he cuts back to bi-weekly sessions. 

But he has tools to handle the worst times; both things he can do for himself, and things that he’s learned to ask from the friends who he’s accepting, slowly, back into his life. Or into his life for the first time, in the case of Mason and Liam. To be honest, he kind of likes Scott’s new betas, these days, and they do look up to him. Him and Derek.

They have movie night that Friday in Derek’s loft, which is looking lived in again after so many months. It's different enough, and Stiles has come to pack nights here enough, that the times with the succubus aren't on his mind when he hangs out here. Which isn't to say it never crosses his mind, but not more than anywhere else. Mason and Liam are missing because of studying for finals, but Kira and Malia are visiting, and of course Scott and Derek are there as always. Ostensibly the get together is because Stiles finally passed the Police Academy’s physical, making him a shoe-in for when he’s ready to take on a full time job. Honestly, though, that’s just an excuse; Kira's chattering to Derek about some Murakami book they both read while she braids Malia's hair, and Scott is reading the backs of Derek's DVDs to the group in an attempt to get some consensus. Nobody's in too much of a rush to pick something, though. They all honestly enjoy each other's company, these days, and they don't need the T.V. to be on as a distraction any more than they need somebody to get a new job to make plans.

Stiles wriggles into his seat at the left corner of Derek's leather couch, feeling blissfully at ease. After all this time, it honestly seems Derek is in Beacon Hills for good. He’s quietly stepped in to be an integral part of the pack, and with him around the group of them feels infinitely more cohesive and stable than it had with just Scott, Stiles and the newbies. Stiles can’t tell if it’s his own more grounded perspective, but he thinks that they really do gel better with Derek’s steady advice and Stiles himself being more involved. For the first time in a long time, he's getting used to feeling wanted and valuable. Even though he knows it’s crazy, in the dark before he sleeps, Stiles sometimes thinks to himself that while it wasn’t worth it exactly, to be parasuicidal and sexually assaulted just to get Derek back… it’s still a damn good silver lining. Things in Beacon Hills are finally looking up.

 

* * *

 

 

“Knock knock,” Derek yells, and Stiles hustles over to open the door. Derek holds out both arms, laden with groceries, to illustrate the need for a verbal request. Stiles snorts and gestures him in towards the kitchen.

His apartment's busier now, decorated with pictures of the pack at various get togethers and vacations - out a Lydia’s lake house, camping at Yosemite, down in LA on the beach with Kira and Malia. Mason fancies himself a bit of a photographer now, and framed prints are his go-to gift. There’s also a slightly ugly canvas Lydia had sent him after some paint-by-numbers-esque work event she’d done, and a bright orange and blue decorative tile that Cora had sent him from Cabo, along with a note bitching him out for stealing her brother. The furniture is nicer, too, stuff that Stiles picks out with his new policeman’s salary. It’s money he isn’t spending on quite as much therapy, anyways, so he figures he can afford it.

Derek starts disgorging the grocery bags onto the counters, and Stiles quirks his eyebrows at the amount of food. They do this sometimes, hang out one on one. Mostly he likes it, though Derek’s insistence on cooking is always a bit confusing. He’s pleased that he knows Derek better than they'd managed during the terrible years of high school, but one of the things he’s learned is that the guy can’t cook to save his life, even when given better ingredients than lentils and olives.

“What’s all this?” Stiles asks when the steaks come out of the bottom of the second bag.

“I’m cooking dinner for you, obviously,” Derek snips.

“A four course steak dinner, by the looks of it. Why?” Stiles counters, leaning against the wall, but holding off on doing anything to interfere with the preparations.

Derek shrugs, fake casual. “It’s your two year anniversary of therapy.”

“That was two months ago,” Stiles reminds him fondly

“Well, close enough. Not like you’re getting out any time soon,” Derek says, a little defensively.

Stiles rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t feel as judgemental as it might coming from someone who hasn’t had a metric ton of therapy himself. Both of them have thought about killing themselves; both of them managed to make it out the other side. They talk about it sometimes, which should be weirder than it is.

Derek starts washing the vegetables and Stiles watches, bemused. “Want any help with that?”

“No.”

Stiles makes a broadly incredulous face, even though he knows it will go unseen, and leaves to busy himself putting on some music and setting the table.

When he comes back, Derek is softly cussing to himself as he mangles some garlic with Stiles’ chef’s knife, while a pot of pasta boils distressingly high on the stove beside him.

God, it's terrible. Stiles almost has to laugh at the scene that Derek, so hypercompetent everywhere else, makes in the kitchen. “You gotta let me help,” Stiles chides him, hip-checking him out of the way to turn the heat on the pot down before pulling the knife out of his hands and starting to mince the garlic into something reasonable.

“I was doing fine,” Derek mutters.

“Sure you were,” Stiles allows. “Can you tear up that lettuce for the salad, and turn the broiler on the steak down?”

It’s true, Derek is not a good cook. That’s not even all that’s wrong with him. He wheezes unattractively when he laughs too hard, and his abs are going soft as he edges past thirty. He still tries to fix everything himself, occasionally without even letting the rest of them know there's a problem in the first place, and he aggressively doesn’t care about comic books. It’s a pity that all of his flaws only make Stiles want him more.

Derek takes the steaks out after the timer goes and lets them rest; of all the cooking he’s tried, meat carving is the thing he’s closest to competent at. Stiles puts a lid on the finished pasta to keep it hot, and dresses the salad. When everything is as done as it’s going to be, they sit at the table to eat.

It's a good conversation, but atypically slow. Stiles knows the difference is him. Usually he banters more, and only relies on Derek to react and fill in the pauses just enough to keep him going. That's what works for them; He knows that Derek won’t pick up the slack if he goes monosyllabic, too. But he can't help but sink into reflection, as he looks at the four course meal laid out in front of them. 

“Why are you doing this?” he finally asks, picking at the deeply mediocre pasta he’d been able to salvage from Derek’s attempt to boil it into paste. He means more than the so-so dinner, because he knows the gesture is about more than the flimsy excuse of a milestone. 

Derek seems to understand. “I want to do everything right. This seemed...” he shrugs, a little uncomfortable.

“Is this about your pack?” Stiles asks suddenly. “I mean, I appreciate you looking out for me, but is it because you want to make up for what happened to them? Because you don’t have to atone for that, it wasn’t your fault.”

Derek winces. “No. Stiles, that’s not what this is. Just, you deserve to be treated well, and to be happy. That’s all. It’s not about anyone else.”

It feels like the elephant in the room, the one that pops up when it’s just the two of them, has doubled in size. They hang out one on one enough, they do. But even so, it’s never stopped feeling charged. Stiles tries not to think about the real Derek this way, to contaminate what they do have with the fucked up desire he’d felt for the succubus doppelganger… but even when he fights it, it feels like dating, sometimes. Times like this.

“At a certain point, it’s a little cruel, don’t you think?” Stiles asks. He tries to keep his voice light, spears an asparagus stem with his fork like this conversation is just more dinner chit chat.

“What?” Derek asks, eyebrows knitting up as if he really doesn’t know.

“The part where you hang out and do nice things for me when you know perfectly well that my, uh, deepest desire or whatever, is…” he makes a vague gesture to take in all of Derek’s Derekness.

“I don’t know that,” Derek says stiffly.

“Don’t bullshit me, I’m not a suicide risk anymore,” Stiles snaps. With a shaky breath, he reigns in the impulse to defend himself by lashing out before it goes anywhere crueler. “Just… fuck man, whatever. I’m not that fragile, you can be honest with me. Go ahead and get it out in the open. You know the succubus looked like you, for me. You know I’m into you.”

“I honestly don’t know that,” Derek says, kind of loudly. “So, fine, you saw me when the succubus used its powers, alright. That’s not… you know, it’s not a soulmate thing, it’s not anything except sex. I guess I know that at one point you thought I was hot,” he says sarcastically, sweeping his hand. “That is, you did before something with my face took advantage of you at your lowest point, so, you know, fair bet you don’t anymore. Succubi aren’t about who you care for, or want to be around. It's just... somebody you’ve had sex with or felt chemistry towards, anybody you’d fuck. That’s it. It's not an emotional thing at all, much less a permanent truth. So don’t… don’t pretend like I know anything about what you want because of that. Or that it should mean anything to you.”

Stiles stares. It’s the longest monologue he can remember Derek volunteering. 

“What?” Derek asks bruskly, his ears pinking up.

“But, what I saw wasn’t someone I’d had sex with before, or any of that,” Stiles says slowly. “It wasn't just physical, to me, it seemed like it was both. All that stuff you’re saying… is that how you think about what you were seeing? Braeden?”

Derek lays his silverware down purposefully, though he’s not looking at Stiles. “Braeden and I hooked up, you know that. We had a friends with benefits thing going on, and I like her alot. The chemistry works, I’m comfortable asking her what I want in bed… but I don’t love her. I don’t want to be with her.”

“Why are you telling me that?”

Finally Derek looks him in the eyes. “Stiles,” he says softly.

Stiles’ heart is pounding again, but it isn’t like that night at the bar. It isn’t a shock to him that Derek’s offering something more than friendship, this time. He’s tried to keep himself from hoping, scared to be wrong, but there have been so many clues: All the not-dates since he started therapy. The way they bounce off each other so well, falling easily back together after Derek’s long absence. The homemade dinners, the late night conversations, the thought-of-you trinkets they exchange. Derek staying in the first place. Even Teddy has encouraged him to consider it:  _ how are you so sure, Stiles, that Derek doesn’t care about you that way? If he’s important to you, don’t you think you should talk about it?  _ Stiles doesn’t want to ask why, this time, because he can finally guess what Derek sees in him.

“You want to date me?” Stiles confirms in a small voice.

“Not now! Or, I don’t know.” Derek puts his head in his hands. “I can’t imagine what it’s like for you, when a thing who looked like me was… doing that to you. How can you even be in a room with me?”

“Hey, don't, it's not like that.” Stiles reaches out and tentatively brushes Derek’s arm. The table between them is all brightly lit and clean, with their nice dinners steaming in front of them. It’s such a complete inversion of the first time Stiles thought he was having this conversation that it seems surreal. “That thing was like the porn remake, or something. Lord of the Cock Rings. It’s not like I get  _ confused _ .”

There’s a smile tugging at Derek face when he looks up, though he’s fighting it. “Does that make me Lord of the Rings? I’m flattered at the comparison. You  _ like _ Lord of the Rings.”

“I like you,” Stiles says, all defenseless honesty.

Derek nods, shifting nervously in his seat. Even though Stiles has laid his feelings out so plainly, he’s not making a move to capitalize on the information, or take anything from Stiles. It’s so different than the succubus’ easy lies. Stiles reaches out again so their fingertips bump, and Derek rolls his palm over so their fingers link. Then they’re holding hands.

“I like that you do nice things for me,” Stiles says quietly, scooting his chair around next to Derek’s. “However it started out, you’re the reason I’m still here, and doing okay. That’s because of you. You did this right.” He dips his chin to look into Derek’s eyes.

Derek nods slowly, looking right back at Stiles. “Thank you.”

“But at the same time, you don’t have to cook for me ever again,” Stiles says tenderly. “Because you’re terrible at it.”

Derek busts out laughing, wheezing included. “You’re an ungrateful menace, you know that?”

Stiles nods, giggling himself. He scoots closer on his chair, so that he’s pressed up against Derek. “Still want me to be your menace?”

Derek nods back, his amused grin settling into a content smile, and then dropping into something even more serious as his eyes dip to Stiles’ mouth. “Can I kiss you?” he asks softly.

Stiles answers by initiating the kiss himself.

It’s not electric, toe-curling mouth sex like it was with the succubus’ powers. It’s warm and gentle, a little hesitant even. Derek moves his hand to Stiles’ jaw with a small noise between a sigh and a moan, pulls him closer as their mouths slide together, open to a hint of tongue. Stiles melts into the sensation, letting his own arms wrap around Derek’s neck and twisting so he’s half kneeling on Derek’s chair. It’s a better angle for, well, everything. They might even hit that toe-curling mark. But after a moment they pull back, dropping brief, light kisses against each other’s lips, breaking off only when it gets tricky because they’re both smiling so widely.

Stiles knows they're not going to push it any further, not tonight. There'll be promises and conversations, boundary setting and lots of checking in before they get to heavy petting, much less full on sex. He knows when they do go there, he may well get flashbacks, no matter what he says. There will still be times when he lashes out, or Derek shuts himself away, too. It isn’t as if their respective damage has disappeared just because of this moment. 

He also knows that it will all be worth it, to have the real Derek. 

“I’m glad you came back,” Stiles says, brushing his nose against Derek’s.

“Best decision I’ve made yet,” Derek confirms, and kisses him one more time, firmly, like a promise.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh gosh, thanks to everyone for reading, leaving kudos (?) and commenting (???) on this one, I really wasn't sure at all how it would be received! If you liked the writing, come find at me on [tumblr](http://troubleiwant.tumblr.com/) and say "hi" :)


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